


Better Than All Right

by nwhepcat



Category: My Bodyguard (1980)
Genre: 1000-5000 Words, Boy Kissing, Gift Fic, Grief, High School, M/M, Redemption, Romance, Sweet, Yuletide, potential triggers (very brief references)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-19
Updated: 2009-12-19
Packaged: 2017-10-04 15:37:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/31808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nwhepcat/pseuds/nwhepcat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Ricky Linderman returned to Lake View High after a year away, all he wanted was to be left alone. But Clifford Peache was a madman when he set his mind to something, and what he wanted was to be Ricky's friend. [Warnings: Brief images from past events that might be triggering, but on the whole this story is very similar in tone to the movie.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Better Than All Right

Ricky stuffed his hands into his jacket pockets, feeling them bunch into fists as he took in the lobby around him. Everything looked completely different now, yet exactly the same. Like a dry stream bed at the moment, in the middle of the second period of the second day of school, but when the bell rang there would be a flash flood -- noisy, chaotic -- as students filled the hallways from wall to wall.

For now there was just one kid, wooden hall pass in hand, clunking it against each locker door he passed. In no big hurry to get to class. He caught sight of Ricky and his half-lidded eyes snapped open as he suddenly remembered someplace important he had to be. The kid's feet pounded a quick rhythm on the stairs as Ricky made his way to the office.

The office ladies stopped their chatter as he walked up to the high counter. He took one hand out of his pocket and put it on the scarred wood, but when he saw the dark half-moons of grease under his nails, he clenched the hand again to hide them.

"That's Ricky Linderman," one of the ladies whispered to another.

"Hello, Ricky," said a third lady, her tone overly sweet and full of pity.

He nodded. There was nothing he had to explain; his parents had already had the big powwow with the principal and the school counselor.

Tearing a late pass from the pad on her desk, she filled it out and handed it over with his class schedule. Ricky nodded his thanks and left, consulting the schedule on his way out. Ms. Jump. He had her last year, too -- the part of last year he was around for, anyway.

No sense wasting a perfectly good late pass. Ricky stopped by the john, pushing his way into a stall to have a smoke. The doors were shorter than they were a year ago, or seemed that way. He'd shot up a few more inches over the spring and summer. The wrongness of this bothered him. Ricky had considered himself full grown back before Danny died, and this -- it felt like he'd stolen the height that was never going to be added to his brother's frame.

Taking one last drag of his cigarette, he dropped it into the toilet and flushed it, then headed up the stairs to Ms. Jump's room.

***

Ms. Jump was in mid-lesson when he finally walked into the classroom. He'd done _Romeo and Juliet_ before. He hadn't liked it that much last year, and didn't suppose the second time around would change his mind. He took the opportunity to zone out on Ms. Jump's introduction, hyping the teenage love and sex and swordplay and tragedy.

He wasn't the only one ignoring the breathless talk about great themes and Shakespeare's times. There was a buzz in the room, a restlessness that expressed itself in whispers and sidelong glances in Ricky's direction. He felt a muscle start jumping in his jaw.

Not that he hadn't expected this, but knowing it and experiencing it were entirely different things.

Ricky stared at his desktop, trying to tune back in to Ms. Jump, because the currents around him were getting a little tough to take.

"And the day your papers are due," Ms. Jump was saying, "we'll have a treat. We'll take two class periods and watch _West Side Story_."

If possible, Ricky hated _West Side Story_ even more than _Romeo and Juliet_. Same damn story, except with fire escapes instead of balconies, with long and plentiful breaks for pointless singing and dancing, and at the end Tony gets shot and dies. No fucking thanks. He'd be out those days. If he hadn't blown off school entirely by then.

The bell rang and the room erupted in sound and movement. Ricky let the others flow out the door into the stream before he unfolded himself from the cramped desk chair.

Ms. Jump had posted herself by the door, and offered him a smile as he approached. "It's nice to see you back, Ricky."

Everything about Ms. Jump was warm and real -- her tone of voice and the smile on her face -- nothing like the sticky-sweet greeting of the office lady. Ricky had forgotten, in his complete hatred of everything about last year, that he'd liked her.

Still, what was he supposed to say? _Nice to be back_? It wasn't. But because it was Ms. Jump, he mumbled _Thanks_ and waded out into the surging current of bodies in the hall.

***

"That kid has a death wish," someone said as Ricky walked by the trophy case.

Hurriedly he jammed his fists back in his pockets to prevent anyone getting a look at the scars.

The kid went on: "Did you hear the shit he said?"

Well, clearly it wasn't Ricky who was the topic of conversation. He had said all of one word since he'd been in the building, with only one witness to that.

"Moody's gonna kick his ass if he doesn't watch out," said another kid.

Melvin Moody? Seriously? When did he get to be the big noise around here? He hadn't struck fear into that many hearts when he was a freshman last year, but what little Ricky remembered of him showed a pretty strong mean streak. He was a talented amateur at making kids' lives miserable; Ricky guessed at some point during the past year he'd decided to turn pro.

***

Amazing what you could hear even when no one talked to you. Ricky waited in the lunch line with classmates determined not to take notice of him, listening to them trading bits of information on the kid with a death wish.

His name was Clifford Peache, and he'd just transferred from some private academy. A limo dropped him off and picked him up. Those, as far as Ricky could determine, were the facts.

There were theories. His father had been filthy rich but lost all his money so the kid was stuck here at Lake View. This may or may not have involved bank fraud and prison. Or: His father owned a hotel and was still filthy rich, but decided the kid needed to toughen up and get some experience in the real world. Give it a day or two, and there'd be rumors that Peache's dad was paying Moody and his pals to bully the kid. Ricky knew how these things worked.

***

Death wish or not, Ricky had to give him his due. Apparently no one had ever issued Peache the "How to Roll Over for Bullies" manual, because he refused to give up protection money, didn't keep his head down in gym class like all the other kids on Moody's shit list knew how to do. Ricky sat on the bleachers, cracking his knuckles and wishing for a smoke, while the rest of the class ran up and down the basketball court. The kid who sat in front of him in English carefully kept to the edges of the game, the non-jock's dance to keep the gym teacher off your ass without really entering into the game. Peache, though, despite the fact that he was almost as short and skinny as that kid, he got into the thick of things. Even -- _shit, unbelievable_ \-- stole the ball from Moody. The insanity of it was kind of beautiful.

Not that Ricky was openly watching. He just gazed at his hands or the toes of his boots, and occasionally glanced up when there was the sharp sound of an exclamation, the smack of physical contact or the thud of a body on the court. More than once, it was Clifford Peache's body hitting the hardwood.

Apparently Peache's brains were scrambled by sprawling on the floor one too many times. He ran after Ricky and offered him a fucking _job_, keeping Moody off his ass. It was Peache's shitstorm, but he wanted Ricky to hold the umbrella for him. Another brand of crazy, one Ricky found a little less beautiful. Be his bodyguard, for fuck's sake. Be his friend.

Ricky had had friends. They were juniors now while his life had frozen in place for a year. They'd made new friends that they bullshitted with in the halls, girlfriends they French kissed in the doorways. They were the ones who cut their eyes away as he passed them in the stairwell. Last thing he needed was any more friends.

But Clifford, he wouldn't give up. He was a madman when he set his mind to something, whether it was examining every single cylinder in every Chicago junkyard until he'd found the 350 Ricky was looking for, or making room for Ricky in his circle of friends.

***

A few weeks later, Ricky got to see exactly where Clifford got it from.

His grandmother was _fierce_. Not in a mean way, but that didn't make her any less terrifying. Like Clifford, she would not stop until she'd pulled you from your hiding place. Dancing that old guy right into the ground, grabbing Ricky's hand when he'd tried to pull it back.

Brassy and loud as her voice had been, it softened and became as warm and kind as Ms. Jump's. "Open up, Ricky. You're among friends. You're among friends."

Just as Clifford had, she wore him down. Ricky uncurled his hand, which was scrubbed practically raw to get all the garage dirt from under and around his nails. He was glad now that he had.

"I see a long life," Mrs. Peache said, tracing the lines on his palm with a finger. "Very good, very valuable." It wasn't so much the words that rocked him, but the warmth of her voice, the feel of her hand on his. He couldn't say when the last time was that he'd heard that tone or felt that kind of contact.

It was a struggle, keeping his expression carefully neutral. If the old guy, Dobbsy, hadn't shown up a moment later for another round of dancing, Ricky might have embarrassed himself somehow. Clifford invited him back up to the terrace to do a little more "stargazing," and he went,   
grateful for the prospect of deep patches of dark where he could relax.

Alone together on the elevator, Clifford was a little hyper and strange. Clifford probably found Ricky quiet and strange, he guessed. Once they got out onto the balcony, Ricky felt like he could finally breathe again.

Ricky stuck to the shadows as Clifford went to the parapet and turned, striking a weirdly girly pose. "Shhh, Tony!" he whispered in a terrible Spanish accent. "If my brother finds you here, he weel keel you!"

And Ricky had _no idea_, but before he could even respond, Clifford threw out his arms and sang, "Tonight, tonight, it all began tonight..." His singing was spectacularly off-key.

_What the hell?_ "Clifford?"

"You know. _West Side Story_. I thought that was so dumb -- oh. You were out those two days. There's this scene--"

"I know the one you mean," Ricky said. "I saw it ages ago." A year ago, a lifetime ago.

"Oh," Clifford said. He still seemed jittery, moving over to the telescope to find another half-naked girl in a window.

"Okay, what?" Ricky demanded.

"What?"

"You're all jumpy."

"Yeah, I know." He didn't stop fiddling with the telescope, though. "Listen, Linderman, I'm sorry. For asking about your wrist. I'm a dumbass."

"Forget it, it's okay."

"It's not, and then my grandmother -- god, I'm _really_ sorry about her."

"It's okay, Clifford. I _like_ your grandmother."

"Jesus, she just doesn't know when to stop."

Ricky grinned. "Guess that must run in the family."

That made Clifford turn toward him, one hand bumping the telescope just enough to shift its angle. "What?"

"Remember me saying I didn't want to be your bodyguard? Or your friend? You're a fucking bulldog when you want something."

Ricky would have sworn there was a touch of smugness in the grin Clifford gave him. And more than a hint of resemblance to Mrs. Peache.

***

Carson and Shelley were a funny pair, walking side by side up the park path. Her pushing her bicycle, guiding it with one hand half the time as she gestured. Tall and gawky, with her explosion of hair, towering over Carson, who was rehashing his favorite parts of the fight in his foghorn of a voice.

When he thought about it, Ricky figured he and Clifford probably looked just as ridiculous trailing behind them, him pushing the drowned corpse of his motorcycle, looming over Clifford, who was about waist-high.

"You should've heard my grandmother's advice after the first run-in I had with him and his pals," Clifford said. "She said, 'Go for their eyes, it takes the fight right out of them.'"

"Naw, she didn't," Carson scoffed.

"I'm completely serious," Clifford said. "She also said I should kick 'em in --" Suddenly he shot a glance at Shelley and clammed up.

"I can believe it," Ricky said. "She's really something."

"She sounds fun. I wanna meet her some day." Shelley pointed to the park's Wisconsin Street entrance. "That's me." Turning a sweet smile on Ricky, she said, "I hope you can make your bike run again." She threw her leg over her bike and crossed Clark.

"I gotta get home too," Carson said. "Work on that stupid Dickens paper."

"Have you figured out a theme?" Clifford asked.

"I'm calling it, 'Make Up Your Mind Already: Was It the Best of Times or the Worst of Times?'"

The three of them laughed, and it occurred to Ricky that this was probably the most normal conversation he'd had in a year or more.

"See you guys," Carson said, and set off up Clark.

Clifford walked with Ricky toward the garage. There was a current that ran underneath their talk about the Dickens essay, the adrenaline rush that still pinballed through Clifford at the thought that he'd fought Moody and won. He kept circling the conversation back around to it. "I can't believe I popped him in the nose," he kept saying.

When they reached the garage, Ricky dug in his pocket for his keys, tearing open the places where his knuckles were scraped raw in the fight.

"Your hand's all bloody," Clifford said.

Ricky looked down at the hand sorting through his key ring. _This? This was nothing._ He remembered seeing his hands dripping with his brother's blood, and little fragments of bone and brain. He had pulled Danny onto his lap, once it was too late to make any difference, his blood covering Ricky's hands, soaking through his jeans. He'd stayed that way until his mom had gotten home, so long that Danny's blood was no longer scalding hot.

"It's no big deal," he said. "Just a few scrapes." He toed down the kickstand and leaned the bike on it while he worked his key in the door. It took just the right English to get it unlocked. Stepping inside, he punched the switch to the overhead door.

"If you're gonna work on this today, you should get those cleaned up and covered," Clifford said.

"No point putting on bandages. First thing I've gotta do is hose this down and get all the mud and slime off." Ricky headed toward the back of the garage to find a brush and bucket, yanking the pull chain on the bare bulb overhead.

Clifford, true to form, was right on his heels. "Yeah, cause lagoon slime is just what you want in those raw places."

"What about yours?" Ricky caught Clifford's wrist and drew his hand close. "Let's see the damage."

And there was this buzz and snap between their hands or in Ricky's head, he wasn't sure. His stomach lurched the way it had when Clifford started singing to him on the balcony. He shot a sidelong glance at Clifford, whose lips were parting in slow motion, looking something like Ricky must have then, with that _What the hell?_ expression on his face.

Ricky's hand flew open, releasing Clifford's. "A little swollen, that's all."

As if that wasn't weird enough, Clifford leaned in and kissed him, sudden and quick, an awkward collision of lips before he darted away again.

Ricky blinked. "What the hell was that for?"

Clifford got the same fierce, deranged look he'd had when Ricky had sprung him from the locker where Moody and his goons had stuffed him. "It wasn't _for_ anything. Where's the damn hose, anyway?"

"Just inside the door." You had to unhook it from the faucet when you were done with it and bring it inside, or someone in the neighborhood would walk off with it. "Wait a second."

"What?" Two spots of color burned high on Clifford's cheeks.

"What d'you mean, what? You kissed me."

"No shit, Linderman. I was there, you know."

"Why?"

His chin went up. "Because I've been thinking about it for a long time."

"Well, you sure didn't make it last that long."

Now it was Clifford's turn to blink in surprise. "Well, I kinda wanted to get out of reach before you killed me." Ricky laughed, and that just made Clifford fiercer. "What's so fucking funny?"

"You, man. That's prime Clifford Peache. You're sure you're gonna get killed for being who you are, but damned if you'll be anything else."

Clifford stuck his hands in his jacket pockets. "Yeah, well, it's funny till I do get killed."

"C'mere."

"Why?"

"Just c'mere."

Clifford shuffled toward him, still wary.

Ricky reached out, brushed his thumb gently over his lower lip, barely touching the skin where it was split from the fight. "Does it hurt?"

"Not much." He looked like he expected to have the rug yanked from under him any second now, but he stayed still. A tiny muscle near Clifford's eye fluttered and twitched.

There in the dim light of the back of the garage, Ricky leaned in and touched his lips to Clifford's. He caught Clifford's scent of soap and cooling sweat and grass in the midst of the darker, oily smell of the garage.

Ricky had had little practice with kissing, and none at all with a boy. He guessed the same was true of Clifford. The kisses were fumbling and awkward, but as he and Clifford started doing more of the things that felt good, the learning curve was not so hard. Easier than rebuilding a bike.

Clifford drew back first, face flushed, eyes glittering. "Uh, shouldn't we be hosing off all that gunk? Off your bike, I mean."

Ricky laughed hard at that. "You kill me, Clifford. 'Off your bike, I mean.'"

Clifford was already laughing.

"Yeah, we should," Ricky said. "We want to get all the crud cleaned out and get things sprayed with WD-40, then give it some time to dry."

"You want to come to my place after that's done? Go hang out on the balcony?"

"Look at half-naked women?"

Clifford grinned. "Not exactly."

Making out on balconies. It sounded good. "I think I can do that," Ricky said. "Just promise me one thing."

"What's that?"

He hooked an arm around Clifford's neck. "Swear you won't sing again."

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from the song "Tonight" from _West Side Story_. Thanks to my betas to be named later.


End file.
